Flash()
by Twiddlesticks
Summary: "It was nothing personal you know. You were valuable, hand-picked. Unique." A series of one-shots detailing the circumstances leading up to the deaths of every character, in near chronological order (as well as I can figure).
1. Load()

_**"They got that loudmouth Tennegan. Figured he retired."**_

The Lettergee-Tamsin convention hall was packed to the bursting with bustling people and brightly coloured booths. The sounds of chatter, laughter and music filled the air, causing a thrumming hubbub that one would have to shout to be heard over.

And yet there was one voice, one singular, nasal, reverberating voice that seemed to slice through the air like a knife.

"Why don't we just get you a box, huh? Then there'll be no trouble for the camera man, and no inconvenience on either of our parts! I do apologize for my ridiculous stature but, well, the body's gonna do what the body's gonna do, eh?"

The young woman nodded shyly and simpered up at the beaming broadcaster.

Wave Tennegan held up a finger to show his intentions of returning swiftly, then disappeared behind the prefab wall of his booth to find a box for his diminutive fan to stand on.

Tennegan was an inordinately tall man, mostly owing to his gangling legs. In addition to his great height, his large, aquiline nose, piercing ice-blue eyes and thin lips gave him a rather imposing appearance.

But the radio-host was by no means intimidating.

Wave Tennegan was as friendly and easy-going as they came. He exuded the boisterous, amiable charisma that was often associated with radio-announcers. He was quick to joke and easy to talk to, and made a point of listening intently whenever someone spoke. When he set his cool blue gaze upon someone, he gave the impression that he was focusing on them, and only them, and that their words carried enormous weight.

And usually, in Tennegan's opinion, they did.

Wave adored his listeners. Perhaps his unconditional, paternal affection towards them came from his time as a vicar. He'd discovered much about people in his time at the church, and he'd learned to pick out the unique, indescribable quality of a person and cherish them for it.

This open, welcoming respect for everyone combined with serious knowledge of the art of debate was what allowed Tennegan to secure so many high-profile guests for his radio show.

'Big ideas, that's why!' his motto rang true with all his listeners, and they all adored him just as much as he adored them.

The convention hall boasted a fantastic lineup of vocal performers of all kinds, and there were even rumours of an appearance of the illusive songstress Red. But the majority were there to see Wave Tennegan, and everyone knew it.

The radio host reappeared from behind the booth carrying a small wooden crate used to carry sound equipment, and placed it on the ground for his fan to step onto. She did so, wobbling a bit in her high-heels, and anxiously braced herself on Wave's arm. He gave her a cheery thumbs up, then slipped his arm around her and turned his eyes to the camera.

"Alrighty then, smile!" he blared, and bared his teeth in a winning grin. The flashbulb went off and the cameraman quickly checked the large, clunky, portable terminal next to him. He gave Wave a curt nod.

"Great! Sorry again for the box business, thanks for being such a good sport about it! Your photo'll be waiting for you at home, Ms. Chattress. And heeeere's your autograph, and heeeere's your complementary pin."

"Thank you so much!" squeaked Ms. Chattress, bright red in the face as she accepted the paper and the pin from the broadcaster.

Wave gave her a warm smile and a nod. He bid her good day and waved at her until the next visitor stepped up to his table, eagerly clutching a poster to be signed.

The event lasted for hours, with thousands of people coming and going from the venue. Wave held up quite well despite the numbers, and treated every last one of his fans with the same amiable vigour.

But everyone has their limits, and by the time the last few stragglers were leaving the hall, the radio-host was exhausted.

"You look beat." said the camera man, sidling over to Wave, who was seated behind his table, head propped up in his hands, eyes closed.

"Yes! Well. A bit. Need any help packing up?" Wave replied, making an effort to sit up and beam at the photographer.

"Jeez fella, give it a rest! We'll be fine packing up on our own." he motioned to himself and a pair of workers who nodded. "You go home and get some shut-eye. You look like you could use it."

"Ah! Well then. Thanks!"

Wave got to his feet and trudged across the hall and into the foyer. He rubbed his eyes with his index knuckles and blinked blearily over at a comfortable-looking sofa wrapped around an enormous decorative pot filled with flowers.

'Surely a quick nap won't be…' he thought vaguely before folding up onto the sofa and falling fast asleep.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Tennegan..?"<p>

Wave's eyes fluttered open to the sound of a deep, resonant voice. He was looking up into the face of an administrator.

"Administrator Kendrell?" he said, sitting up quickly and smoothing out his clothing in slight embarrassment.

"That is correct." replied the administrator, stepping back to allow Wave to get to his feet.

"Terribly sorry, I was resting and I suppose I just dozed off, ahah!"

"Indeed." said the administrator, watching Wave with level, lidded eyes. His voice was slightly warmer when he spoke next: "I heard you were your usual glowing self the entire night. It must take a lot out of you to keep up that level of interaction."

"Well, I…" Wave trailed off and a frown creased his forehead. He peered at Mr. Kendrell closely. What would an administrator be doing here and at this time? "…As much as I appreciate the hullo, administrator, I must ask– what brings you here? If you don't mind the inquiry, that is…"

"Not at all, not at all," a small smile crossed Mr. Kendrell's lips, though his eyes stayed cool. "I'm actually here to see you, Mr. Tennegan. Since it's getting rather late, I'll get straight to the point. You have, I'm sure, heard about the closed off district of Goldwalk, and the rumours circulating about said closure?"

Wave's eyes glinted.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I have. Why?"

"I happen to be a part of a small, exclusive group of people who have… special privileges concerning that clandestine corner of Cloudbank." as Mr. Kendrell spoke, three other individuals appeared seemingly out of nowhere, coming to stand around the administrator. "We believe it's high time the public knows about what's really going on in there, and we believe you are the perfect mouthpiece for the information."

"Is that so?" said Wave, a genial smile parting his lips. However, something about the situation struck him as off, somehow. The appearance of the three other figures was oddly ominous.

Wave recognized Asher Kendrell, the administrator's young husband and editor of the OVC, and beside him Sybil Reisz, the renowned event-planner. Wave had worked with her several times, and in fact she had set up the very meet-and-greet he'd participated in that evening.

On the other side of Grant was a man Wave didn't recognize. His most notable feature were his eyes– large, piercing and bottle-glass green.

"It is so. I believe you know my associate, Sybil Reisz, and my husband, Asher?" said Mr. Kendrell, as if reading Wave's mind. "And this is Royce Bracket, you ought to recognize him by his name."

Wave blinked.

"Bracket? Bracket Towers Bracket, Bracket civil-engineer-extraordinaire Bracket?" he exclaimed.

"The very same." replied Mr. Bracket in an uncomfortable monotone, as if the words didn't quite fit in his mouth.

"The four of us belong to a group called The Camerata, and we believe the city we love deserves the truth." Asher Kendrell spoke up, his expression serious, his tone heartfelt.

"Well that's something I can get behind." said Wave, "What can I do for you?"

"We're willing to take you into Goldwalk to let you see the area for yourself." said Mr. Kendrell, folding his arms behind his back. "However…"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as his tone changed. Wave stiffened slightly.

"We will do so only on condition that you leave our organization out of your broadcast. You must swear you will name no names, and tell no one how you entered the district and who allowed you to. Do I make myself clear?"

Grant Kendrell was, somehow, even taller than Wave, and while Wave's great height made him more loveable than intimidating, Mr. Kendrell's caused quite the opposite effect. Despite this, however, Mr. Tennegan wouldn't be bullied.

If these… Camerata were somehow directly involved in the strange happenings in Goldwalk (and something about their bearing gave Wave cause to be suspicious), it was his duty to tell his listeners.

They deserved the entire, pristine truth, and nothing less. Grant Kendrell did not scare him.

Wave folded his arms and smiled a winning smile at the administrator and his cronies. He crossed his fingers against his side.

"Terms accepted. Show me the way."

* * *

><p>The next thing he knew, Wave Tennegan was sitting in the back of a sleek black car speeding down the darkened streets, driven by the man who'd designed half the city himself.<p>

The other members of the 'Camerata' sat around him, Grant and Asher together across from him, Sybil next to him.

They all seemed slightly on edge, which made Wave on edge as well. He tried to catch Sybil's eye but she was looking away from him, staring out the window.

Wave turned to look out his own window and noticed where they were.

"Hold on, hold on a second. We're not heading towards Goldwalk at all. Where are we going?"

"Just a little detour." came Sybil's voice. She didn't look around as she spoke. "We can't very well just drive straight in, now can we?"

She let out a tinkling laugh which only made Wave's nerves worse, as she still didn't turn to look at him.

The car drove on for some time until it reached a secluded back-alley containing a ramp leading down into an odd underground tunnel. The tunnel was well lit and smooth, but seemed to have a formless, unfinished quality about it. It reminded Wave of the prefab booths at the convention centre. Built quickly, and meant to be disassembled in as much time.

The broadcaster's jangling nerves were finally soothed when they exited the tunnel and came out into the familiar streets of Goldwalk. When the car stopped, the four 'Camerata' got out and Wave followed them, fingers curled around a small notepad and pen.

He looked around, trying to pick out what was wrong with the district.

It was only after a few blocks of walking that he began to notice the strange white blotches. The feeling of formlessness from the tunnel crept back down his spine.

"What… What's happened here?" cried Wave as the group came to standstill ahead of him in what was once a town square.

"The Process." uttered Bracket in his emotionless drawl. Wave looked at him for clarification and noticed that he was now holding something. A large, turquoise blade-like item with a single, blood-red eye at its centre. An involuntary shiver ran down Wave's spine. He hadn't seen the engineer carrying it when they'd entered.

"Been testing them out. Seeing what they're really capable of. Incredible, isn't it… A whole city block… reduced to… well, components. Just the blank canvas, you know. Before all the trimming and the paint and the… neon signs go on, this is what's underneath. The Process. Underneath it all… and soon, the Camerata."

Wave stared.

"I don't understand– You–– You did this?!"

"Yes." replied Royce flatly.

"But–– But you're–– This has to be a joke, right fellas?" Wave let out a shaky laugh, "This–– This is all some sort of publicity stunt, and you want me to report it to give it that extra bit of credence, right? Haha…"

"When everything changes, nothing changes. That's the Camerata creed." said Asher quietly in answer, arms folded around his sides. "Royce's made so many changes, all in the people's name. But they just can't seem to make up their minds."

"The more changes, the less stability we have." continued Grant, "And I cannot watch my fair city fall apart."

"So to prevent anything from changing you're just going to change it first, huh?" cried Wave, anger spilling into his tone. The situation was dawning on him. These people– the administrator, the engineer, the editor and the event planner– the event planner he'd liked and trusted… They wanted to to change Cloudbank with this… this Process thing. And it sounded… as if they wanted to change it into a dictatorship with themselves at the helm.

"You want to turn it all into 'blank canvas' with this, this Process thing?! Hah! If anyone's destabilizing Cloudbank, Mr. Administrator, it's you and your lackeys! Sybil! I would never have believed it of you!"

Sybil merely scoffed.

"That's the point, Wave."

Wave took a step backwards, then another.

"The deal's off–– The public has to know! Administration has to know––"

"But my dear Mr. Tennegan," said Grant smoothly, "We are administration. Now."

He turned to Royce. "We'd best get on with this. We don't have all evening."

"Get on with what–– What are you planning to get on with?!"

Wave was walking backwards at a normal pace now, squeezing his notebook, fingers trembling with anger and fear. There were four of them, but that sword-thing wasn't sharp enough to be a blade and looked too large and heavy to act as a wieldy club. Besides, he had at least a large head start– his height might have inconvenienced him often, but long legs were good for some things.

Wave saw Royce's hands tighten on the handle of the 'sword' and felt his heart skip a beat. With that, he spun on his heel and pelted off down the unfamiliar white street.

'I've got to warn them… the listeners… my listeners…' he thought desperately, 'I can't let them take over Cloudbank I've got to warn them, got to warn––'

Wave's train of thought was cut off abruptly by a whistling rush of air and a sharp pain in his lower back.

He was dead before he hit the ground face-first, smashing his nose in the process.

The Camerata approached leisurely and gathered around the prone body, watching a small pool of blood spread outwards from the face.

"Oh dear." murmured Sybil shakily, eyeing the creeping red stain. "That's–That's unfortunate."

"Yeah…" breathed Asher, eyes locked in the same spot.

"What now, Royce?" said Grant gravely, arms folded behind his back. It was almost ironic how their hushed voices and solemn stances brought to mind a funeral.

"I'll take care of this." replied the engineer. His perpetual frown seemed to deepen. "But, I think, we…"

Royce held out a hand and closed his fingers around the handle of the sword, which seemed to jump into his grasp. Then, with a sharp crackle of electricity, the four of them were gone.

Their shadows had barely faded from the ground when the soft clicking of tiny rigid limbs filled the street. Three tripodal white creatures scuttled seemingly right out of the walls and surrounded the corpse. They chittered and clicked to each other as they began to reduce the erstwhile broadcaster to little white blocks.

**_!- any good? constructive criticism is appreciated. thanks for reading! TS -!_**


	2. Get()

_**"Bailey Gilande worked admin up in Highrise. That's a lot of privileged info."**_

Celebrated archivist and top administrative consultant Bailey Gilande sat hunched over a terminal in the archival building, flicking through her messages. Her dark, canny eyes gave the heading of each message a once over and quickly passed over it. Most of the things administration sent her these days weren't really worth consideration. Bailey yawned softly, covering her mouth with slender fingers, then bent closer to her monitor.

'Proposal for a walking bridge from Goldwalk to Fairview…' she thought, opening the message and reading it in full. This had caught her attention for the simple fact that it was such an obvious move. It seemed like an excellent idea to Bailey. Hesitation on an obvious poll meant that there had to be some kind of drawback, and they wanted her to find it.

She selected 'reply' and left the terminal running as she got to her feet. She slid on a pair of slippers and bustled over to the elevator, which would take her into the archives proper.

She hummed under her breath as she ascended, staring out the glass windows into the brilliant lilac sky.

The archives were slowly being converted into digital files to be stored in huge databanks, but most of them were still on outdated drives, or even paper depending on how old they were.

When Bailey reached the storage warehouse, she stepped out of the elevator and picked her way through the many shelves containing everything that had ever been recorded about the fair city of Cloudbank.

After a few moment's she'd found what she was looking for. It was always easy to locate information for Bailey. She'd compiled most of it herself and overseen its storage here. This was her kingdom.

'It's such an obvious decision… why wasn't it done sooner… There might have been some sort of obstacle, a building malfunction, unsuitable conditions, some kind of flaw…' she thought, rifling through files.

She was jolted from her work suddenly when there was a slightly timid call from behind her.

"Miss Gilande?"

Bailey spun around to see her secretary, Daphnis, clutching a gilt envelope and looking a little anxious. Anyone who'd worked for Bailey Gilande knew that she didn't like to be disturbed while she was busy, and that she became quite snappy when she was.

"What is it?" she said approaching the man.

"An envelope, miss." he said, holding it out.

"I can see that. What's inside?" she replied, slightly vexed.

"I-It was addressed to you, miss. I thought it would be improper to open it…"

"Hmm. Well, I suppose so. Thank you, Daphnis. Will that be all?"

"Yes miss."

Daphnis trotted away quickly leaving Bailey to her letter. She opened it with dextrous fingers and unfolded the paper within.

It was an invitation.

'Archivist Bailey Gilande, you are cordially invited to this private banquet in honour of Cloudbank's most devoted servants."

Bailey's eyes lingered on the word 'banquet'. As much as she preferred to keep to herself, she loved food. Especially if it was good. And free. And made specially, in her honour.

She tucked the letter back into the envelope, then continued with her search of the archives. When she'd found what she was looking for, she went back to the elevator and opened the letter again.

The location was nearby, and when she checked her schedule on the terminal, the date was set on an evening that she wasn't particularly busy.

She pondered over the pros and cons of attending the event while she pored over her files. By the next morning, she'd decided that the Bridge was a good idea, and so was the banquet.

The days leading up to the event went by quickly. Bailey had little to look forward to in her quiet, historical world, and awaiting this rare outing sped up time nicely. So it seemed like only moments had passed between the time she'd acquired the letter to the time she'd just finished tucking her pet elf-owl Oda into the folds of her dress; the little bird was attending as her guest to provide her some comfort.

She left the archives soundlessly, as was her custom, sealing them up tight and double-checking the locks. She could never be too careful with her precious files.

She'd sent Daphnis home early, who'd been a little too happy about it, and set everything in order for the following day. Satisfied with her work, Bailey began her trip through Cloudbank to the banquet hall, her invitation tucked safely into her breast pocket.

Sitting in the back of a taxi cab, Bailey mused over the approaching evening, stroking Oda gently with the tip of her gloved finger.

She hadn't been particularly surprised to receive the invitation, once she knew what it was. She was certainly one of Cloudbank's most devoted servants, having practically stitched its history together from scratch. The present couldn't be adequately shaped without taking the past into account, after all. Bailey's work certainly merited some sort of celebration.

She wondered who else would be there. Perhaps Ms. Niola Chein? She was such a diligent, zealous woman, and she'd accomplished much in her career. But her area of influence was centred on Goldwalk, not Cloudbank in its entirety… Perhaps Ms. Lillian Platt? Chairwoman of the OVC, inventor of the current terminal model. Bailey was pleased with Lillian's work, and the two of them were currently collaborating on the effort of digitizing the archives for easier access (Though, privately, Bailey would always love the physical records herself). Or perhaps Grant Kendrell… the most devoted administrator ever to grace Cloudbank. Fair, judicious and quite intelligent, Grant had been one of the admins who'd put forth the idea of letting her run the city archives in the first place.

Bailey smiled to herself as the cab pulled up to the curb. She payed the driver and stepped out into the street, pulling the invitation from her breast pocket and checking the address. She looked up to find that she'd arrived directly in front of the building; it was a large marble affair with grecian columns and a motto in the old language over the huge oaken doors.

Something about the building felt oddly off to Bailey. There were no lights decorating the outside, or even greeters. Nothing to suggest there was an event taking place inside.

'It's private of course, but even so… it looks terribly chilly.'

Nevertheless, it was the correct address. Bailey mounted the few stone steps to the door and heaved it open. Inside was a huge, echoing hallway carpeted in soft blue. A single chandelier lit the place, casting bluish light down upon Bailey's small, singular figure.

She was alone.

She wandered tentatively down the hall, looking around and feeling quite subdued by the deep silence around her. She was beginning to worry when she spotted a sign at the end of the hall reading 'Banquet Hall' with a glowing blue arrow pointing to the right. Bailey sighed in relief and hurried down the right passage. She sniffed the air, expecting the smell of food, but the air simply smelled rather dusty. She frowned. There really was something off about all of this. Cuddling Oda a little tighter to her chest, she sped up.

When she finally arrived at another huge wooden door with a loaf of bread engraved across it, she lugged it open to reveal a dining hall as huge, echoing, and empty as the rest of the place.

Bailey stood in the doorway, staring. She was standing at the beginning of a long, stone-paved aisle with rows upon rows of long mahogany tables lined up on either side; not a single one was occupied. The door behind her slowly slid shut and closed with a loud thud that reverberated through the chamber, accentuating its vacancy.

Bailey scrutinized her invite, anxiety making her heart rate increase. She was definitely in the right building, and according to the information on the letter she wasn't early, late, or mistaken. Had the banquet been canceled and she simply hadn't been informed? Was this some sort of cruel joke?

Bailey hesitated for the longest time, then finally spoke up.

"Hello?"

"Hello."

Bailey nearly jumped out of her skin when a sonorous male voice responded to her own.

There, at the end of the hall, four silhouettes came into view, illuminated partially by a glowing blue something.

"I am Bailey Gilande, head of the Archives of Cloudbank, and I demand to know what is going on here!" cried Bailey indignantly. She would have stormed down the aisle to confront the four strangers, but something -possibly fear- kept her rooted to the spot. Oda peeped nervously.

"I'm glad you made it, Ms. Gilande. We've been expecting you."

Bailey suddenly recognized the voice.

"Grant? What––" but her voice faltered as a sudden movement caught her eye, and something huge and brilliantly turquoise came hurtling through the air towards her.

She let out a soft "oh!" as it stuck fast in her diaphragm, then she toppled backwards onto the flagstones.

The Camerata approached her body.

"It's a shame," said Grant softly, peering down at Bailey, "She was a genius."

"In death, she'll… do more for Cloudbank than she ever had in life…" replied Royce, just as softly.

"Oh! Look!" cried Sybil, pointing excitedly to Bailey's chest. Just above the sword, a tiny, fluffy brown lump was wriggling and peeping anxiously.

Asher stooped and extricated the tiny bird from the woman's dress.

"Looks like an owl. You did say she owned a bird, right Gra–– ow!" the owl in question had just bitten Asher's finger, causing him to let it go. It soared up into the rafters, peeping loudly in terror.

"Shit–– Look at this!" yelped Asher, holding up his bleeding finger so the others could see.

"You were handling it rather roughly." sniffed Sybil.

Asher scowled and pressed the wound to his lips.

"We'll bandage it when we return home." said Grant patiently.

Royce was inspecting the Transistor.

"Alright… It's time we left."

Grant carefully knelt down and lifted Bailey's corpse into his arms. As he did so, Royce took the handle of the Transistor.

A second later, there wasn't a soul in the building, except for Oda, who peeped mournfully from the rafters.


End file.
